The Ruse
by rukushaka
Summary: "Sherlock smirked. "You've no idea how much I've changed, brother dearest," he drawled, and exchanged a glance with John." Two men flatting together in London, or: Creative revenge on Mycroft. Set post-Hiatus, no slash.


**I don't own Sherlock (the show, or the character).**

**Enjoy :)**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Mycroft arrived at precisely 10:30am, just as John was boiling the kettle for tea and Sherlock was emerging from his bedroom, hair ruffled, clad only in a pair of pajama bottoms.

"Morning, Mycroft," John greeted him cheerily, and (using his Sherlock-sense, as he'd privately dubbed it) glanced toward Sherlock at the exact moment that the taller man entered the room.

"Good morning, John, Sherlock." Mycroft returned smoothly, gaze sliding over the pair of them. John stood casually, letting him look: they were, after all, lean and muscled and undeniably _different _since their return to London; Mycroft would no doubt want to correlate the current visual data with his memory of them, eight months past. John himself was clad in his usual jeans and a jumper, any physical marks of their adventures covered by long sleeves and socks; but Sherlock, shirtless as he was, would provide more than enough information.

John noted the faintest flicker of an eyelid as Mycroft catalogued the assortment of scars and bruises that had appeared on his brother's body over the last eight months, as well as the slight change in resting stance, the weight placed more on the heel of his left foot - and knew that Mycroft's diagnosis would be correct as ever: broken toes within the last three months, still on their way to being fully healed.

John still felt a swell of satisfaction when he remembered how he'd dealt with the moron who had thought it would be a smart idea to hurt Sherlock.

And speaking of his resident genuis...

John turned to his flatmate and rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, you ass, you've deleted my second lot of instructions."

"Whaaat?" The word was a low drawl that turned into a stifled yawn, "I'm decent, aren't I?"

"Bottom _and top_, Sherlock. You never know when we could have to dash out the door, you can't run around London half-naked. And it's rude not to appear decent in front of guests. Here - " John grabbed a discarded dressing-gown from the back of a kitchen chair and passed it to the taller man, who shrugged into it automatically.

Sherlock blinked at John for a moment, made a noise that could be approximately rendered as "Mmmpf" (but probably meant "it's only Mycroft"), and dropped into the now-empty chair.

Mycroft had watched these events with an interested eye and a debonair smile, "Sherlock, you've changed as a result of your little hiatus... one could almost hope it was for the better."

The translation of the snarky-older-brother-speak read, "_You're sleeping a decent length of time, obeying the orders of your Doctor Watson, and dare I hope you're actually going to eat something? What on earth happened in the last eight months?_"

Sherlock smirked.

"You've no idea how much I've changed, brother dearest," he drawled, and exchanged a glance with John.

An outsider (or Mycroft) would have seen an indefinable _something_ pass between them: John grinned and ducked his head, receiving the unspoken message. _Game on._  
Sherlock turned back to Mycroft.

"Tea?" he offered with a false smile, "And I'm sure we can find some of those chocolate biscuits you're so fond of. Do have a seat."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but did as he was told, and soon they were all settled at the table with mugs of tea, a plate of hot buttered toast, and, sure enough, a packet of chocolate biscuits. John and Sherlock sat at one side of the table, brushing arms slightly more often than accidental touches would warrant; Mycroft sat opposite, with a distinct air of condescension at drinking tea out of something so plebeian as a _mug._

"So, what brings you to our little corner of London?" John inquired, knowing the answer full well.  
(_"No doubt Mycroft will show up in the next couple of days, John; he hates being out of the loop, and eight months is almost unthinkable for him. We'll need to plan our surprise before then. How does a repeat of Amsterdam sound? Minus the jealous girl-friend, of course."_)

"Oh, I was merely passing through. I thought I might drop in and say hello; isn't that what brothers do?"

Sherlock stole a slice of toast from John's plate and slanted a glance toward him. _Lying through his teeth, but we already knew that. _He tore the corner off the toast and spoke with his mouth full, "Don't be dull, Mycroft, surely you can come up with something better than that."

John took a sip of tea to cover his grin.

Mycroft's own smile faded rapidly. "You faked your death, disappeared for eight months with only Doctor Watson for company, and then turned up out of the blue with news that James Moriarty's network was utterly destroyed. Forgive me if I seem somewhat concerned, Sherlock."

"And no doubt you've noticed my newest scars, fading bruises, etcetera, etcetera..." Sherlock reeled off, and waved a hand toward John, "I was very well taken care of, I assure you. And I must admit, my own needlework skills have improved remarkably."

Mycroft's gaze sharpened. "Oh?"

Sherlock threw his chair back and stood up. "John, shirt off."

John sighed, but in the interests of avoiding WWIII, shrugged out of his jumper. He was still disengaging his hands from the sleeves when Sherlock made a noise of impatience, tugged him closer, and undid the buttons on his shirt.

John grinned internally. _Time to step it up a notch, eh?_

He smirked, "Easy, tiger. There's no rush."

There was a studied lack of reaction from Mycroft. Sherlock's mouth twitched in a barely-there grin, but he quickly became serious as he gently peeled the left shoulder of John's shirt down to bare his shoulder blade.

Mycroft strolled around the table and peered at the neat scar that was now visible. There was a barely-there tilt to his head; a tilt that translated to being reluctantly impressed.

"Broken glass," John said matter-of-factly. "On my bad shoulder, too, of all the rotten luck. Sherlock got me out of there, half carried me back to the hole where we staying - it was no good trying to stitch it myself, I couldn't have reached and by that stage I was barely conscious in any case - he had me straddle a chair, cleaned the wound, and stitched it up, quick as you like."

There was a murmured, "I could think of something else for you to straddle..." from Sherlock.

John spluttered, darted a glance at Mycroft, and hissed, "_Behave!_"

This last had finally provoked a reaction: Mycroft surveyed them with an air of one slightly off-balance. John buttoned his shirt, Sherlock returning his brother's stare evenly from his position at John's shoulder.

Finally Mycroft cleared his throat. "Might I assume that the two of you are, ah - " he paused delicately.

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted, clearly not about to make things easy for his sibling.

"That you are in a... relationship?"

John picked up his mug from the table and cradled it in his hands, enjoying Mycroft's discomfort. He replied with a bland smile, "Isn't everyone? Mothers, brothers, husbands... Even monks say they're in a relationship, albeit a spiritual one."

Mycroft's own smile was very fixed. "A _physical _relationship."

"Well, I've certainly punched him a few times, but he deserved it."

Mycroft sighed. "You are being deliberately obtuse, Doctor Watson. _Might I assume that yourself and my brother are engaged in a homosexual relationship with one another, involving love or at least affection, and quite possibly also involving sex?"_

Sherlock slipped his arms around John's waist and rested his chin on the blonde's good shoulder.

("_Relax, John. Just lean your weight back onto me slightly, that's it - subtle body language makes all the difference._")

He answered for the two of them, "Brother dearest, you may assume whatever you wish."

Mycroft nodded. "Very well. Doctor Watson, hurt my brother and you will have occasion to regret it: Sherlock, hurt Doctor Watson and _you_ will have occasion to regret it. And my congratulations to the both of you."

John grinned. "Cheers, Mycroft."

Sherlock smiled over-brightly, eyes mocking. "Yes Mycroft, thank you for your stunning acceptance of our sexual identities; now go away."

John lightly slapped the hand that was reaching for his mug. "Be polite."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Mycroft, if you value your eyes, kindly _leave_."

"Marginally better."

Sherlock appropriated John's mug and took a sip.

Mycroft smiled tightly, bowed, and took his leave.

They listened as the footsteps descended the stairs and the front door opened and shut. Without lifting his head from John's shoulder, Sherlock looked at him sideways: one long finger poked him in the ribs. "Kidneys."

"Microwave."

"John, you're a marvel."


End file.
